


Amnesty

by IwillbeReichenbach



Series: Aberrate [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caring Greg Lestrade, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychological Trauma, Rape Recovery, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:11:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22888231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IwillbeReichenbach/pseuds/IwillbeReichenbach
Summary: When Sherlock finds out that the person who assaulted him due to be released, he finds that, even years later, the attack still haunts him.  Lestrade is there for him when he is ready to talk.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Aberrate [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588240
Comments: 11
Kudos: 192





	1. Sherlock Holmes

It was evening when Mycroft rang Sherlock to tell him the news. Sherlock was sitting in his favourite chair, John sitting across from him; they each had a glass of exquisitely expensive whisky in hand. A gift from a satisfied client. Sherlock reached across to the table to grab his phone. Glancing at the screen he saw who was calling. He sighed deeply, rolled his eyes a little, and he slid his thumb across the screen.

“Mister Carlton was very happy; his accountant will never work in this city again and his daughter is speaking to him again. We have a nicely aged bottle of Macallan as proof of his satisfaction as to how we rapped it all up.” Sherlock informed his brother. 

There was silence on the other end of the line. 

“Problem?” Sherlock asked.

“Jason Costello has had his parole approved this afternoon.” Mycroft stated in a hollow voice. 

Sherlock was suddenly acutely aware of John’s presence, and the large piece of personal information from his past that he had neglected to divulge. “No, we won’t drink it all without you. We are just finishing up anyway. You know how much I enjoy your little visits, do pop by for a tipple some time. Some other time. Bye now.” 

Sherlock swallowed the last of his drink as he hung up. Hoping that it would stop the thrumming in his veins, but it just stuck in his throat. 

He stood quickly. “I think I’ll head off to bed. Drink as much as you like, it would really annoy Mycroft. Let yourself out when you’re done. Night.” 

“You ok, Sherlock? You look a bit peaky.” John asked 

“Fine, John. Just stood up a bit too quickly.” 

Sherlock sincerely hoped that John would just accept this, there was no way in the world he could possibly tolerate explaining it all to John. “I’ll be busy tomorrow. The maceration tubs need refreshing, I know how you hate the stink.”

“Ok, I’ll see you soon, call me if you have a case on; next week should be pretty light at work.” 

Sherlock barely heard him as he walked to his bedroom, he felt as if he was floating. He’d known it was coming. Known for years. Jason Costello’s sentence had technically been up three years ago but an incident that left another inmate dead had caused his sentencing to be extended. That had come as a relief. Though, not for the dead man obviously. 

Still each time the parole period came up, Sherlock got tense. Every time he was denied, Sherlock seemed to relax a little less. Knowing that each day was a day closer to when he would be released. Knowing that memories, flashbacks would surely haunt him for months before he is able to bury them again. 

He heard the door click shut as John left. He paced, in his room at first and then across the kitchen. 

The constant dirty feeling was back, clinging to his skin. He showered, flinching when the pipes banged their protest at being abused so late at night. 

This was what consumed him all night. Pacing and washing more frequently than was entirely healthy. Trying not to think about what had happened all those years ago. Only to find that nothing could stop the thoughts. 

He was tired, tired of thinking, tired of remembering. Remembering the pain and the confusion and the fear. The months of recovery, the interviews, the court case. The other victims. 

He had done well, built a life, dragged himself out of depression and despair so deep that it had seemed bottomless 

And now Jason Costello was getting out. That brought it all back. His brain supplied every moment of the assault without his consent. He relived every moment, everything that led up to it, every touch, every punch, every thrust. 

It all came back with such clarity. The fuzzy feeling from the Rohypnol that had been dropped into his drink. The unusual smell of his cigarettes; Craven A brand he had since discovered. The dizzying speed of the violence. The shocking realisation of his predicament, the cold air on his chest, on his arse. The pain, unbelievable in its magnitude, the inability to think, move, fight back, the vague guilt-ridden arousal that hid amongst the agony. The shame of giving up, giving in. Not caring if he died. The humiliation of being found bloody and frightened amongst the cigarette butts and the bottle tops. The indignity of being treated in the hospital. The horror of the rape kit. Mycroft’s face when he had realised what had happened. 

It all went around and around in his mind until he was shaking with the exhaustion. Then, his brain helpfully supplied the cycle of things he could have done differently. He could have stayed home that night. He could have left early. He could have fought back better, harder, faster. Or not at all and saved himself a lot of pain. Maybe saved himself the hospital visit. Maybe he could have hidden the whole thing the way the other did. 

The whole process has left him depleted. By the time the first rays of sunshine were angling through the front window, he had nothing left to give. Realising that he had not had a single original thought in hours and spent from the pacing, washing, thinking, over thinking, he flopped down on the couch. He made sure that he was facing the door, as he always did when he was feeling unnerved. He knew that being hyperaware was irrational, it didn’t make it controllable.

He hadn’t slept during the case and he hadn’t been able to even consider sleeping throughout the night. Since he had heard the news, he couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes. The repetition of thoughts continues to swirl around him, robbing him of any rest or peace.


	2. Greg Lestrade

Sherlock was laying on the couch when he entered, he was curled on his side, staring at the fireplace. This was not his thinking pose; Greg was familiar with the stillness that wrapped around Sherlock when he took a visit to his mind palace. It was a stillness that thrummed with an undercurrent of energy. He was not asleep either, that came with either a content peace or the furrowed brows apprehension. 

This was a different stillness. His eyes were open, but he was clearly not taking in the room before him. He didn’t even look over when Greg entered. He looked deflated. Dressing gown hanging down over the edge, making it look as if he was melting into and off of the couch. 

Greg stood in the doorway and watched for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. In the mottled light coming through the window Sherlock was a different person from the boy Greg once knew. He had filled out from the too skinny kid that he had first met, his shoulder broader now, his features matured, looking less alien now, or perhaps he had just grown used to their particular makeup. 

“I knocked.” Greg said as a way of getting Sherlock’s attention.

“I heard.” The reply was little more than a weary rumble.

“You could have called out.”

“You could have stayed out.” Sherlock said, the words harsh but there was no bite in his tone.

“I rang too.” Greg said as he came into the room fully. Sherlock’s gaze had not moved, he had barely blinked. Worry clawed at Greg, was he high again, was he depressed again? Was one better than the other? Was he both? 

Did he know?

“Yep, I heard that too.”

“You alright?” Greg asked as he sat down on the coffee table to be closer to eye level. Greg dropped the thin file that he had been carrying on the table. It landed flat, slapping down on the hard surface. Sherlock flinched, but the dead eyed stare continued to bore right through Greg. 

“Yep.” Sherlock sighed. He didn’t look alright though. His face pressed into the cushion; his shoulders slumped.

“John home?” Greg asked looking around him. 

“He doesn’t live here anymore.” Sherlock said with just the slightest hint of emotion creeping into his voice.

“Yeah I know, but he’s here a fair bit.” It was good that John wasn’t here, Greg needed to talk to him alone. 

“I told him I’d be busy today.” Sherlock stated. 

Greg made a deduction of his own. “You know, don’t you?”

“Know what?” Sherlock asked, but a blink gave him away. It was only the briefest of moments, but Greg caught the tightness around his eyes. He knew that this was Sherlock’s way of making him say it, so that he didn’t have to. 

“That Jason Costello has been paroled.”

“Mycroft rang last night.” Sherlock said in a whisper. The dullness gone from his voice, uncertainty that replaced it was somehow worse. “When does he get out?”

“Monday.” Greg replied.

“He was always going to walk free someday.” Sherlock continued without acknowledging Greg’s answer. “I suppose that it was lucky that it took this long. Thirteen years is quite a long time for his conviction.”

“Not long enough.” Greg growled. He remembered all too well what Jason Costello had done, the lives he had ruined, the one he had almost ruined. “That scum should rot there forever for what he did to you.”

Sherlock’s shoulder moved, something like a shrug. Greg knew from experience that was all the answer he was going to get. Knew he’d have to ask outright if he was going to get the answers he came here for. 

“Are you worried he will come after you?”

“Nope.” Sherlock said after a moment’s thought.

“Why not? I am, as of this morning you’re the only victim that is still alive. Andrew stepped in front of the 10.18 from Rectory Road. You’re the only one left; the one who got him convicted; he is bound to be angry.” Greg said in a rush. He felt no relief. He had thought he might after he told him that news. 

“So be it, if he is angry.” Sherlock said dejectedly. 

“I have the paperwork here for a restraining order and I can organise for frequent drive-bys.”

“No.” Sherlock snapped. “Not necessary. It won’t happen again.”

Greg was lost for words. His silence left a space for Sherlock to continue.

“I won’t let it.” He said the dull voice returning. He was still staring at nothing.

Greg understood then, understood with instant clarity. Sherlock blamed himself for what had happened to him. Had he carried it around with him this whole time, had he blamed himself for all of the last fourteen years? 

Greg leaned forward more, inspected Sherlock’s face. It was strange to observe him so closely, he was the one that was always the observer. His gaze usually so intense that it did not leave room for anyone else to look back. He reached out slowly and gently brushed the hair back from Sherlock’s face, exposing the scar that ran along the hair line. The scar that Jason Costello had put there when he slammed Sherlock’s head repeatedly against the paling fence. The scar that had once required nine stitches to hold the jagged edges of skin together. The scar that he styled his hair to hide. The scar that almost no one knew about. Greg traced a finger gently along its length.

Sherlock flicked his eyes to meet Greg’s. Held his gaze. Sherlock’s eyes, no longer lifeless bored into him intensely.

“Sherlock,” he said carefully, “What happened to you, what he did, that wasn’t your fault. You were the victim of a violent assault. That was his doing not…”

“You don’t understand.” Sherlock blurted out, exasperation in his voice. Lightning fast his hand moved to grip Greg’s wrist in an iron grip. “It has to be my fault. If it was, then I can make sure it never happens again. If it was my fault for not watching my drink properly, if it was my fault for following him outside, if it was my fault for wearing tight jeans, if it was my fault for not realising that he was dangerous, if it was my fault for going out at all, then I can control it. I can make sure that I never do those things again. I can keep myself safe. I can make sure things are different now.”

Greg registered the glossy shine in Sherlock’s eyes in the moments before he released his wrist and flipped himself over to face the wall. Greg stared at the shoulders and the dark curls in front of him and wondered if that was why Sherlock went out so rarely, almost never drank, dressed so formally, was so suspicious of new people, why he didn’t have relationships. He wondered, not for the first time, how much the assault that night had shaped the person he had come to know. What had he been like before that night? What would he be like if it hadn’t happened? 

So many times, Greg had forgotten about what had happened to Sherlock in the hour or so before they had met. It was easy to forget. Sherlock was always in such strong self-possession, came across as so confident and ruthless. 

Once they had started working together, after Sherlock’s case was closed and the court hearing over, neither of them had ever once mentioned it again. 

Lestrade had refrained for mentioning it to spare Sherlock the pain of reliving the attack again. But also, because it was not for him to bring it up, especially in the presence of others. Together, by silent mutual agreement they had rewritten their history. To his mind, and presumably to Sherlock’s as well; they had simply met on the case with the hypothermic lady who died in the sauna and they acted as if nothing came before it. 

They had done that for so long that Greg had practically come to believe it was true. He regretted that now. Now that he allowed himself to remember that broken young man. Now that, just this once, Sherlock was allowing him to see that that broken young man and the self-possessed genius were the same person. All at once Greg was aware of how much it still hurt; how much he still carried that broken boy within him. 

Greg reached out and laid a palm on Sherlock’s shoulder. He flinched at the contact, but Greg let his hand rest there and after a moment he felt the tension begin to melt away. He felt a shuddering breath leave him. 

Greg to was holding back tears as he spoke again. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep him locked up. I tried, I went and gave evidence, I told them he was still a threat to society.”

“Not even Mycroft could keep him behind bars. As if you could.” Despite the words displaying the lack of faith Sherlock had in Greg’s abilities, they were meant as a kindness and he recognised them as such. 

A tear fell down Greg’s cheek. He had carried his own grief and regret from that night and what had come after. What if he had gone to the pub earlier, even if just by half an hour? What if he had done a better job of collecting evidence. What if he had done a better job of testifying, could he have gotten Costello a longer sentence? Could they have gotten him locked up without making Sherlock take the stand to testify? 

“You are right, you know? You can do things differently now.” Lestrade said, his voice threatening to crack. “You have people that will protect you, if you let them.” 

Sherlock didn’t reply. Greg suspected that he couldn’t. Sherlock’s shoulders shook beneath his palm as Sherlock reached up and covered the warm hand that Greg rested there.


End file.
